


The Game is Christmas

by ll_again



Category: Enola Holmes (2020)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-02
Updated: 2020-12-10
Packaged: 2021-03-09 20:53:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 3,565
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27832585
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ll_again/pseuds/ll_again
Summary: Sometimes you have to dangle your feet in the water to attract the sharks, and sometimes you have to send your famous detective brother all over London on a scavenger hunt to give him a proper Christmas gift.
Relationships: Enola Holmes & Sherlock Holmes
Comments: 7
Kudos: 61
Collections: 2020 Advent Ficlet Challenge





	1. Tis the Season

Mother always loved word games. Sherlock had forgotten that somehow, in the interval after Father had died and he'd left Ferndall, first to university and then on to London and his work. There's much that slipped from memory, and much more that he missed in those years he'd been too busy to visit.

But these tidbits of nostalgia have been surfacing since his reunion with Enola over the summer. So much so that Sherlock finds them entering his mind at the oddest of times.

He blinks, his eyes automatically refocusing on the paper in his hands. There's an ad in the personals – he always skims them now – that's oddly worded. It's just strange enough to have caught his attention, but nothing obvious that he can parse or even decide for sure that there's another message encoded within.

Sherlock traces the words, smearing ink onto the pad of his finger. Enola would know, he thinks.

Closing the paper, he sets it aside and reaches for his tea. The world outside his window is quiet, the city's noises muffled by the cold and the steady fall of snow that has been blanketing London since before sunrise. The season hasn't done much for his cases – perhaps it is too cold even for criminals to stir from their warm drawing rooms.

Sherlock scowls. Nothing to do but lounge by the fire in his own rooms. He certainly had no intention of stirring out for … what had the morning's telegram been? Oh yes. Lady Wotsit's prized Schipperke had gone missing.

Probably into a pie, Sherlock thinks uncharitably.

The idea that it could be a case for Enola also flits through his mind, though this with good humor. She would take it, he is sure, despite the banality. He's been tracking reports of her since she set up business as a Lady Detective, as keenly, Sherlock suspects, as she had once saved clippings about him. By the reports, she's by no means soft-hearted – not in the way men like his brother mean when they assign that descriptor to a woman. But his little sister can't resist a lost soul.

He hopes to God she's someplace warm, in this weather. Mycroft may think that they're both still engaged in searching for their wayward womenfolk, but in truth, Sherlock has only been going through the motions. The less he knows about Mother's affairs, the better. And as for Enola, he's exchanged a handful of messages with her with Edith Grayston's gracious assistance. Undoubtedly he could track down her new lodgings if he put his mind to it, but he hasn't.

It worries him some, whether or not that's the right decision. But he won't try and make her choices for her, the way Mycroft would have him do. He's resolved in that.

Mrs Hudson clatters up the stairs, just in time to save him from turning maudlin. "I've put the kettle on," she says, forgoing a greeting. His landlady is a delightfully brusque sort and doesn't bother with unnecessary questions like does he want more tea. It's saved him all manner of aggravation.

Sherlock sweeps a searching gaze over her as she reaches for his teapot. A slight frown furrows his brow, because she's plainly been baking and far later in the day than was her wont. "What is the date?" he asks.

She straightens, bracing the teapot under its base. "The first of December."

"Ah, cakes for the carolers." That explains that. The surprise sets in a moment later. "Is it really?"

Mrs Hudson doesn't quite smother a smile. "It has been a busy year, hasn't it, Mr Holmes?"

Between losing Mother, reuniting with Enola, losing Enola, finding Enola, losing her again… and that's besides the whole affair with Tewkesbury, and the vote, and the brewing social changes on the horizon that Mycroft bemoans and Mother may yet forcibly attempt to enact. "Yes," Sherlock agrees, belatedly.

"Will you Christmas with your family?"

'Of course not,' leaps to his tongue, because Mrs Hudson asks every year, and every year that is his derisive answer. But _this_ year, he bites it back.

Sherlock tilts his head towards the window to watch the snow sifting past the pane. He rests his hand on the side table, over the folded newspaper, and taps out the melody rolling around in his head.

_Good tidings we bring to you and your kin_

This year, the first since he left home, Sherlock finds he _wants_ just that.


	2. Bells

The package comes at noon, hand delivered by a newspaper boy who has an unusually sprightly spring in his step as Sherlock watches him saunter down Baker Street, rather like he's been paid an exorbitant sum for the job. Mrs Hudson brings it up.

"Enola?" Sherlock asks.

"There's no label," she hedges, passing over the box.

It's a smallish box, height and width both two inches but eight inches or so on the long end, wrapped in brown paper and tied with string. Sherlock honestly can't begin to guess what's inside.

He peeks at the handwriting on the address. "Enola."

Mrs Hudson nods like she'd drawn the same conclusion. She's seen enough of his sister's letters lying about that she very likely did. "Well, open it," she says. "The boy said I was to stay."

Properly intrigued now, Sherlock makes quick work of the string and paper. Inside the box is a single Christmas cracker, striped red and green.

Lifting it out by one end, Sherlock holds it out to Mrs Hudson. "It seems your participation is required," he says. The grin on his face stretches both his cheeks.

She takes the other end with an air of fond indulgence, only to shriek when they tug the cracker open and it goes off like a gunshot. Even Sherlock is stunned for a split second, before he throws back his head and laughs.

"Not to worry, Mrs Hudson," he says, still chuckling. Taking her elbow, he guides the older woman to a seat. "A jest on Enola's part. That's all."

"What a noise!" she says tartly. "There can be no doubt she's one of your relations."

Sherlock looks up at her through his curls while pouring her a cup of tea. The frown painted on her face is a false front, belied by the twinkle in her eyes. He laughs again, stirring a heaping spoon of sugar into the tea. "I can't take credit for Enola's interest in chemistry. That was Mother's doing."

Mrs Hudson takes her tea and sips demurely with a noncommittal hum. Something about her reaction piques his curiosity, but Sherlock has done no more than open his mouth for a question he hasn't even formed when she lowers the cup. "What's in the cracker? Did you look?"

Of course. Enola must have made it for more reason than just to make a loud bang. Sherlock finds the tube and fishes around inside. Sugared almonds – those a gift for his landlady, surely, as Enola knows he doesn't like sweets; Sherlock passes them over – and a folded slip of paper. Not a love poem like would be found in a bought cracker, but a riddle.

_I have four faces, yet cannot see_  
_I have eight hands, but cannot touch_  
_You hear me speak, for I have a tongue_  
_But I cannot breathe, for I have not a lung_

Sherlock reads it twice, mouth moving silently. Ah. Elementary. Hardly a challenge, child's play for a man of his intellect really. But excitement still thrills through his veins as he leaps up, bustling through his rooms to shed his dressing gown for a coat. Whatever game Enola is playing, he's certain this is only the first move.

"And where are you off to?" Mrs Hudson asks. She hasn't moved from her chair, content to sip her tea and watch him dart around.

Sherlock kisses her cheerfully on the cheek and bounds for the door, still winding his scarf around his neck as he goes. "Westminster," he calls over his shoulder. "St Stephen's Tower."

He's no idea what he'll find when he gets there, just that the bells will hold the next clue. That's what makes it fun.

 _The game is afoot, dear Enola_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I definitely stole that riddle off the internet because I am not smart enough to make up riddles.
> 
> St Stephen's Tower was the Victorian nickname for Big Ben.


	3. Chilly

The question, of course, is how to get up the tower to the bell. The problem hadn't vexed him so much in the cab, that portion of his trip had been occupied attempting to deduce what he'd find there. A gift? A case? Another clue, perhaps. Or Enola herself?

Sherlock can't say which he prefers. (The case, naturally. Although Enola is a close second. He hasn't laid eyes on her since his visit to that wretched boarding school.)

"Ey, you're that detective fellow! From the papers."

It's not immodest to admit that this happens more often than not these days, ever since the papers began to report on his cases. Sherlock can't really say he's enjoyed the change in circumstance, although it has compelled him to improve his skills at disguise.

He's tempted to ignore the man, but Sherlock turns anyway. The man's a common sort, nothing unexpected, and dressed in working clothes and a cap.

There's a mad smile splitting his face, which is slightly concerning.

"She said," he chortles, "you'd not be a minute late. And here you are, on the dot."

The bells chime the quarter hour.

Sherlock stiffens, narrowing his eyes imperceptibly. But there's nothing on a closer inspection that he hadn't deduced on the first pass. "You mean Enola."

A nod. "Yessir. Miss Holmes asked me to take you up. Name's Avery."

Sherlock shakes the proffered hand and follows when Avery starts towards the tower. "How did my sister look when you saw her?" He only realizes his blunder when Avery shoots him an odd look. "We're detectives, you see," Sherlock contrives quickly, "playing a bit of a game. The vital clue could be the smallest thing."

Avery nods, but reluctantly, as though he doesn't really understand. But he does as bid. "Seemed the same as always, did Miss Holmes. Nothin' out the ordinary I could see."

He opens a door at the base of the tower with a key and gestures Sherlock through and up a twisting flight of iron wrought stairs that let to the top.

"How was her manner?" Sherlock asks.

"Oh quite cheerful, sir," Avery says, following behind. "But that she would be, if youse were playing a game." He bubbles on without further prompting, "Miss Holmes has always been in good spirits, every time we's seen her. She helped my Maisie out, you see, few months back."

"Maisie is your wife?"

"Nah, my littest 'un. Lost her doll. Boy down the way took off wi' it, but Miss Holmes sorted it all out."

Sherlock barked a laugh, unable to hold it back and with no reason to bother to try. "I'm quite sure she did."

The rest of the climb is largely silent, both men saving their breath for the lengthy set of stairs. The tower is lit by a soft light filtering through the four great clock faces, and Sherlock can't help but be impressed by this bit of engineering. They follow the steps all the way up to the belfry where a catwalk circles the great bell.

Avery fishes an only slightly crumpled envelope out of his jacket and hands it to Sherlock. "Miss Holmes instructed you're to go out-" he nods to the balcony atop the clocks, "-before you read this."

Taking it, Sherlock steps outside. The wind bites at his cheeks and his nose, but Sherlock looks out at the vast expanse of London stretched all around the tower and pays the cold no mind.

The writing on the envelope is not an address, but a note. He reads it in Enola's tart register, the one that's an unconscious mimic of Mother's. _For your first gift_ , it says, _a_ _view of London I doubt you'd ever take it upon yourself to_ _seek out_.

Sherlock clutches the banister with a gloved hand and gazes out once more. How many people have chided him for his strange habits, for focusing on minutia to the point that he overlooks the whole of a thing? But Enola's gift holds no such censure – it's an extraordinary view of London, equal to yet opposite of the one he sees every day.

Sherlock lingers until the tip of his ears and nose goes numb and his cheeks burn with cold.

It's only when he's reluctantly ducked back into the tower that he turns the envelope over to open it. Written under the seal is another note, _Directions to your second gift are inside. To appreciate it properly, bring Mycroft_.


	4. Deck the Halls

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Haa, so I'm behind on this already because I went down a truly EPIC rabbit hole learning about Vesta Tilley. Do yourself a favor and look her up, because she was amazing. There's even a biopic about on on Prime streaming right now that is, uh, whatever the 1950s version of camp was.
> 
> Anyway, I'm in love with Vesta Tilley and Sherlock might be a wee bit as well.

"Oh _good God_ ," Mycroft exclaims.

Sherlock signals to a waitress and orders another scotch. Mycroft plainly needs something stronger than sherry tonight.

Bringing Mycroft to a Vesta Tilley performance at Canterbury Music Hall was a truly inspired idea. Sherlock hasn't seen his brother this flustered since they were both in short trousers.

"It's obviously a boy," Mycroft huffs, gesturing impatiently at the stage. "No woman could possibly mimic the mannerisms of a gentleman. It's not in their natures."

Sherlock snorts into his glass. "I'm sure we both know at least one woman who is capable."

The woman on the stage is a fine example. Vesta Tilley, male impersonator, is dressed in a suit that might have come out of Mycroft's own closet. Every detail, from the cut of her wig down to the shine on her shoes is perfect. As are her mannerisms, Sherlock notes, his eyes following her raptly as she struts across the stage, rolling her gait and swinging her arms exactly like any man might. If he saw her on the street, Sherlock can't say even he would be able to pick her out as a woman in drag.

"Miss Tilley is a woman," he says, half to himself and half to Mycroft. "There's no question of that."

"Ridiculous," Mycroft mutters, taking a larger than decorous swig of his drink.

Sherlock turns his glass on the table, still watching Miss Tilley. "A good disguise is merely the application of observation and practice of certain mannerisms," he says. "Anyone, man or woman, with enough wit and dedication can be a passable mimic of another class or gender. Our sister is certainly capable."

Alarm shoots over Mycroft's face. "On the stage?" he leans towards Sherlock to hiss. "Do not tell me that is why she has summoned us to this, this _place_."

For a brief moment, Sherlock wonders the same, albeit with considerably more merriment than his brother. "No," he decides. "I should think not."

"I'm leaving," Mycroft announces. But he doesn't attempt to do so before polishing off his scotch in a large gulp, so Sherlock is able to catch him with a hand on his arm before he can stand.

"Enola asked us to come," he says. "There must be a reason."

"You said she would be here. And she is not. Not that you would know, you've hardly glanced away from the stage since she got here."

Sherlock blinks innocently at his brother. "I said she might be." He tilts his head, pursing his lips in a show of thinking. "She may yet arrive." Mycroft scoffs, unimpressed, and Sherlock grins at him. "Stay," he says. "An hour here will hardly imperil your reputation."

Mycroft slumps into his chair. "What reputation?" he bemoans. "Between you and Enola, I haven't a shred of one left."

Sherlock orders him another scotch.

Vesta Tilley is singing about a toff and mimicking the caricature so perfectly as to be satirical.

_Who is it that turns up, the lonely girl's friend?_  
_Who is it that nightly his club must attend?_  
_Who is it drinks brandy and smokes strong cheroots?_  
_Who is it that gets into bed with his boots?_

Mycroft snorts into his freshened drink. "That's every young fool at my club," he mutters.

 _What price Burlington Bertie,_  
_the boy with the Hyde Park drawl,_  
_What price Burlington Bertie,_  
_the boy with the Bond Street crawl?_  
_He drives from his club; what a lovely sight;_  
_The cabby says 'Eres a wet night -_  
_But free' says he 'With L.s.d.,_  
_Burlington Bertie's the boy for me.'_

The crowd chimes in with the chorus, much to Sherlock's delight. And, he's beginning to suspect, to Mycroft's. There's nearly a hint of a smile under that mustache.

They stay for the rest of the show. Enola never turns up, not unexpected, and Mycroft makes no mention of it even after being considerably loosened by several more drinks.

Sherlock helps him up into a cab at the end of the night, and says, "Happy Christmas, Mycroft."

Mycroft blinks down at him, owlishly. "Yes," he says slowly. "Happy Christmas."


	5. Shepherd

_Guide me. Teach me._

How long ago it seemed that she'd knelt before Sherlock at Ferndell and begged him to take her under his wing and been summarily denied. And yet, in the six month since, Sherlock has never been without some advice, most of it useful.

Enola is still undecided on the merits of attracting sharks.

But he's since counseled her on casework, on Mother, on living in London. And once, in a note that had brought a flush to her face that she had immediately stuffed under her mattress, Sherlock had a very prescient line of advice about Tewksbury.

Clad in boy's clothing, she leans against a hitching post and watches as Sherlock bursts from his flat to hail a cab. When he gives Westminster as his destination, she has to press her lips together to hide a smirk.

As wise as he is, Enola knows there's a whole world out there that Sherlock can never see without someone to guide his way. And she's just the one to do for him, in return for all he's done for her, in his own, strange way of going about things.

Enola pulls down her cap, shielding her face from any sharp eyes that might be about and report back to her brother, and steps quickly down the street.

 _So it begins, Sherlock Holmes_.


	6. Joy

There's a trail of clues down the alley, all carefully placed. A smudge on a cobblestone that's too perfect to be natural. A bit of red ribbon tucked in a bit of cracked mortar between two bricks. And a green one caught on a nail down an alley.

Sherlock collects the ribbons, lifting them away carefully so they don't tear, and folding them into neat squares before tucking them in his breast pocket. He explores a little further, sharp eyes searching every brick and every footprint.

It's a delightful game. A little silly, perhaps, for a grown man to be following such a path, nearly on his hands and knees as he picks out Enola's breadcrumbs. But Sherlock has been called far worse than just silly, and so what if the outcome of this enterprise isn't as critical as his usual occupation?

It's Christmas. And this is _fun_.

He finds a wisp of gray wool attached to a door frame, just the color of the fiber wrapped around her pinecone Dash. Pocketing that with the ribbons, Sherlock peeks through the shop window. It's the bakery he's been scenting since he turned down the lane. With one last look around, Sherlock decides that he's meant to go inside.

"I believe you've been given something for me," Sherlock says to the shopkeeper when she bustles out.

The woman is portly, plain, and cheerful. She smiles blankly at him a moment before recognition sets in. "Oh! You're Miss Holmes' brother."

Well, that's … different. It's been years since he's been identified in reference to someone else.

"She said you'd be right along, and here you are!"

Sherlock has to lock his knees to keep from sprinting into the backroom. He can't stop his spine straightening or his head from turning to the curtain that shields it from view. "Is she here?"

"Oh no," the baker says, cheerfully oblivious. "She's been gone, oh, half an hour or so. There is summat she wanted you to have." As she chatters, the baker is filling a bag from a basket of golden brown buns. "Sweet thing, is Miss Holmes. Saved my life she did, or my shop, though that's near the same. Oh, but you won't be interested in all that."

Sherlock is, naturally. But the flush rising on the baker's cheeks and the way she cuts her eyes down holds his tongue. Maybe whenever they do meet, he can get Enola to tell him the details.

Though maybe … Sherlock's brow furrows minutely as he squints at the baker, wondering if this case was from something of the parts of the world that he was finding beyond his deductive reach – the parts that Mother railed against and Edith claimed beyond him.

"There you are, then!" the baker says, shaking away her timidity for a bright smile as she handed him the bag. "Miss Holmes bought these for you. She is a blessing, that girl."

Sherlock sneaks a peek into the bag, sniffing delicately. Ginger buns. Though he doesn't like sweets generally, Sherlock has always favored these. Mrs Lane had always had some ready for tea when he'd been a boy. It's not something he thought Enola would have remembered, but she'd sussed it out somehow nonetheless.

"Yes," he says, already digging one out. "She is."


End file.
